Today, I won the battle against tempo training torture (a sustained run at a tempo faster than your goal race speed but for a shorter distance). I ate carbs the night before, I had a full night's sleep, and I drank some caffeine before I began. But the real clincher in my victory was born the day my friend Lola and I got divorced.

That's a bit confusing. I have never been married. But Lola has, and to a once very good friend of mine. But happily ever after turned into once upon a time, and that time had ended. And Divorce Day stands as a good representative of the fun, wacky, sad, happy, blessed months that followed while Lola and I were roommates.

The memory struck as I approached Nickerson Street, with one mile left to go. I was getting to that place where the goal is within reach—you're on pace, you're almost done, but boy, does it hurt: your chest, your lungs, your quads, everything. But as I neared the Fremont Bridge, my Lola memory came rushing back with such force that I laughed and winced all at once--like jamming your funny bone on a coffee table.

Divorce Day.

Five years before, I had sat in a pew when Lola and her husband got married. On Divorce Day, I sat on a courthouse bench, watching her get divorced. He didn't even have to be there. It took less than five minutes—a relief and a bit depressing all at once. A vow for life disavowed so quickly.

Lola needed a drink.

As her friend and divorce buddy, I delivered. I bought her a glass of champagne to put the best face on her return to Singledom. Lola, being the charming, hilarious, warm woman she is, has many friends. So as we all took shifts watching over her, there were many,many faces of Singledom she encountered throughout that day . One of them was Ben Ogilvie's.

Not the real Ben Ogilvie (Milwaukee Brewers OF, 1978-1986), but a guy who was hanging out at the Nickerson Saloon when Lola and friends sauntered in. They struck up a conversation about the Brewers (Lola's a Cheesehead) and somehow she started referring to him as Ben Ogilvie. Ben Ogilvie was incredibly drunk, seriously obnoxious, and fairly aggressive. And Ben Ogilvie had it in his head that Lola was sweet on him.

He apparently did not remember that he was donning a styrofoam Seahawks hat. (Do not take offense 12th Men of the world; I am merely suggesting that the foam wear is not for impressing the ladies.) Ben Ogilvie asked for Lola’s number. Unfortunately, she wasn't adept at the art of the gentle letdown –Lola was newly resingled, remember—and so she pulled out a pen. As he waited for the precious digits, his Hawks hat all atwitter, Lola glanced out the window.

She spied Fremont Bridge Mini-Storage across the street.

She saw its phone number painted on the side of the building.

She copied each number, digit by digit, onto the paper bound for Ben Ogilvie.

Lola was so amused with herself. She has a wonderful giggle that is incredibly mischievous and innocent at the same time. And that giggle filled my ear when she called to tell me about her mini-storage triumph.

But then it stopped. Abruptly.

"Uh oh," said Lola.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I think I wrote the number on the back of my business card."

The memory actually made me double over this morning, laughing suddenly and out of nowhere in front of a puzzled woman pushing a stroller. I think she actually shielded her child from me. The chuckling fit made me lose stride, it added a few seconds to my time, and it may have frightened a young mother. But, I finished with a smile on my face.

Even the people who don’t lace up with you can get you through the rough patches. I just hope you're lucky enough to have friends like Lola. During the toughest parts of training, they'll come through, helping retrieve some great memories out of storage.